


All I Want For Christmas...

by Call_Me_Clarence



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Fun, Funny, Holiday induced kisses, I mean metaphorically, John has trouble with asking for things he wants, KatsJohnlockXmas, M/M, Mycroft is just doing his best, The holmes brothers are infinite children, Wishlists, also this is unbataed, get it right, it's a wishlist, its not a Christmas list, mummy needs her christmas lists in from all the boys, or at least I think so, see this is why i have a beta, two separate words apparently, wish list
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21691600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Call_Me_Clarence/pseuds/Call_Me_Clarence
Summary: Mycroft demands that Sherlock and John hand over their Wish Lists. John is confused. And then he's enraged. And then he tries desperately to figure out what it is he wants for Christmas. But John doesn't know what he wants. Or does he?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 95
Collections: Kat's Johnlock Xmas 2019





	All I Want For Christmas...

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Всё, что я хочу на Рождество](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21874093) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> It's a Wish List not a Christmas list, okay? Also, wrote this while drinking and listening to Christmas Trap music. Can you tell?
> 
> Unbetaed and complete Christmas nonsense and fluff.
> 
> Written for Kat's Johnlock Xmas 2019 day 4. The prompt was Wish List

John was getting into a full vegitative state. Zoning out on bad telly. Completely content to let his mind drift and relax and the rain patter against the windows of 221b.

Sherlock sat beside him on the couch, pushed to the very end as John had stretched his legs out at some point, and it was either let John prop his feet up in Sherlock’s lap, or move. Sherlock might not have bothered, but he was working diligently on something on his laptop, and would not be disturbed by the lazing about of John Watson. Though he obviously didn’t care enough to completely move away. Or even comment on the dull reality show John was watching.

It was a lazy day in the flat. The kind of day John loved to indulge in. Sherlock too, though he’d never admit it. They’d probably end up watching a film together over takeout later. Might even get adventurous and play snakes and ladders. Never again cluedo, but thankfully things didn’t get as heated with other boardgames. Except Monopoly. But that was more of a universal thing rather than being just a Sherlock one.

And then Mycroft had to waltz in and ruin their perfectly curated atmosphere of calm.

“I thought you locked the door?” John complained.

“I did.” Sherlock sighed, snapping his laptop closed with a bit too much force. John thought he might buy him a new one for Christmas anyways, as this one had strange gashes in the top that Sherlock refused to elaborate on whenever John asked him about it.

“I’m here for the lists.” Mycroft smiled amicable from where he stood at the end of the couch.

“Lists?” John asked, interest finally piqued. He lifted his head up from the arm of the couch to look between the two Holmes’ brothers. “What lists?”

“I told you I would send them in the post.” Sherlock growled, wrenching his laptop back open to begun furiously typing away once more.

“Oh? Would that be like anything similar to last year? What was it that you said ‘Conspiracy of the Postmen to detain your letter’?”

“I believe I said ‘Postmen Conspiracy to ruin Christmas’.”

“Quite.” Mycroft smiled, then reached out a hand, palm up, “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, Sherlock.”

“They aren’t ready.”

“Mummy will be very displeased if she does not receive the lists soon.”

“Hang on,” John tried to interrupt.

“Displeased with you, perhaps. She never gets mad at me for your inability to collect the wishlists in time.”

Mycroft’s smile turned into a scowl, “She would if she knew how you worked so hard to destroy the Holidays, each and every year.”

“Erm, hello?” John tried again.

“Go on and tell her then,“ Sherlock cut his dark eyes away from his computer to smile smugly up at his brother, “See if she’ll believe you this time.”

Mycroft’s hand that was on his umbrella-cane tightened until his knuckles turned white.

“I will not tolerate your Scrooge-esque behaviour, Sherlock. Not this year.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother, then said deliberately, “Bah Humbug.”

Mycroft looked like he was about to start shouting, but thankfully John managed to squeeze into the conversation with,

“Hang on. Could we please go back to the ‘lists’ thing, yeah?”

The Holmes’ brothers turned their gaze to John, and for half a moment, before their looks could thaw out into one of annoyance and confusion, John was met with the full icy blast of their glares. His body wanted to shiver, but he kept himself in line.

“What about the lists?” Sherlock asked, a bit testily.

“It’s for your Mum, yeah? … So is it like some sort of Christmas List?” 

“Wishlist.” Both Sherlock and Mycroft corrected in bored unison. 

Sherlock went back to typing and Mycroft glared up at a water stain on the ceiling… Or maybe he was glaring up at a hidden camera, threatening his man on the other side with death lest he feed him the location of the Wishlists in question. 

“O...kay.” John said slowly. “But it is for Christmas?”

John had to bite his lip to stop from smiling. Of course the Holmes brothers would still be writing out their Christmas lists for mummy. They were at once the most Adult and most childish people he’d ever met.

Sherlock sighed dramatically and reached into the inner breast pocket of his suit, pulling out two envelopes with fancy script on them. Each spelling out a name.

“Here.” Sherlock said, extending his arm towards his brother, “Take them and  _ go _ .”

“Wait a second.” John sat up and snatched one of the envelopes out of Sherlock’s hands, “This one has my name on it.”

“Of course. It is your Wishlist.” Mycroft narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, “Isn’t it, Sherlock?”

“Why go through the bother of making John fill out a wishlist when I could easily do it for him? This saves time and my patience.” 

“Sherlock.” His brother admonished, “That’s not how Wishlists work. You cannot just  _ fill one out for him. _ ” Mycroft seemed actually royally pissed about it.

But John was too caught up in the list before him to pay the older Homes much mind.

“I do not want an entire new wardrobe.” John’s mouth dropped open in shock and agitation, “Or a new car! Sherlock, what the hell?”

Sherlock snapped his laptop shut again and rolled his eyes.

“Your wardrobe is dreadful, and you spend far too much time waiting on and riding the tube everyday. If you had a car you’d have an average of thirty extra minutes a day to spend on cases.”

“This is not my list,” John told Mycroft, “I want nothing on this list.”

Mycroft sighed through his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. 

“Very well, then.” he said. “Just make sure to have your list finished by the end of this business-week. I will have someone come by and pick it up when you are ready.”

Mycroft made his way from the flat. Sherlock sat, pouting, arms crossed over his chest.

“You’ve ruined Christmas.” he said petulantly.

“Shut it.” John said, still reading through the list, “And why in Gods name would I want a blowtorch?”

Sherlock gave him Chesire smile. 

\-----

The next few days were spent worrying about writing a list of things he wanted for Christmas. It was bad enough that John couldn’t think of things he wanted for himself on a good day. With this added pressure, and the fact that it was Sherlock's Mum who would be buying these things for him--and wasn’t that just bloody weird--he ended up facing down a blank sheet of paper and turning up the loser.

“Just write something.” Sherlock said, looking of John’s shoulder and reading the grand total of nothing that he had written. “For God’s sake, John. It’s not a list of terrorist demands. It’s just things you want.”

John scowled up at Sherlock, “Do you mind?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stalked away.

\----

_ New Jumper _

John stared at the two words he’d been able to come up with. 

It was Wednesday. 

He banged his head onto the table in defeat.

\----

“What about new shoes?” Sherlock supplied, come Thursday evening.

“My shoes are perfectly fine.” 

“You have one pair of dress shoes, though I deign to call them that; one pair of tennis shoes, ratty and falling apart; one pair of ‘work shoes’ which are just a cheaper version of your dress shoes with fancy insoles slipped in; and finally, you have moccasins. Moccasins, John.”

John scrubbed a hand through his hair agitatedly and grabbed his paper off the desk, stalking out of the living room and to his room.

“At least ask for house slippers!” Sherlock shouted after him before John slammed the door.

\----

Come Friday, John was on the phone with Mycroft.

“Look, I need an extension,” he pleaded, as if it were some important work project he was working on and not a damned Christmas List.

“Of course you do,” Mycroft said sardonically. “Perhaps Sherlock was right after all.”

“Don’t say things like that.”

“Don’t make me  _ have to _ say things like that.”

\---

Monday.

_ New Jumper _

_ House Slippers _

Was a new teakettle too much?

“Jooohn,” Sherlock whined, banging his head on John’s open bedroom door that had been flung open some minutes earlier.

John ignored him.

“Just put it  _ down _ .”

“Put what down?” The pen in his hand?

“Whatever it is you’re thinking about putting next on the list.  _ Just put it down. _ ”

“I--well-”

“Joooohn.”

“I’m not used to this!” John said, tossing his pen somewhere over his shoulder. “This is weird for me, Sherlock. I’m not used to it.”

“To what?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“Asking for things!” John shouted a little hysterically, gesturing at the paper in front of him. “I never got to do anything like this as a kid. Certainly never as an adult. This new territory, and it bloody well doesn’t help with you yelling at me.”

“I’m not yelling,” Sherlock scoffed in disbelief, “And besides. How hard can it be? You think of a thing you want, you write it down. I know you want things John. Just ask for them.”

“It’s not that simple!” 

“Why not!” Sherlock  _ was _ shouting back now.

“Because I don't know what I want!” 

They were both silent after that. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.

“Out.” John said flatly, not taking his eyes from the desk.

“But-” 

“I said,” John got up and stomped over to the door, grabbing Sherlock by the arm and herding him out of his room, “Out.” he snarled before slamming the door in Sherlock’s face.

\----

John lay awake in bed that night, wondering what was wrong with him.

Of course he wanted things. He even knew what those things were; A bottle of top label scotch for those special occasions where John always wished he had something nice that he could toast with Sherlock to a case well done; A new phone, because he’d dropped his on the tube one day when the car had lurched, and now his screen was covered in a spiderweb of cracks; Two nice, warm quilts--one for the couch, for when he and Sherlock had their lazy days, and the other for his bed. 

See! He could list these things off in his head, but the moment he got near a piece of paper, pen in hand, his mind went blank. He felt like these things weren’t right somehow, appropriate, maybe. 

He’d had it drilled into his head by each Holmes brother that money was not an issue. That not only did their family come from money--no surprise there--but that Mycroft would compensate anything that was overly expensive. Mycroft had only asked that if the item would take some time to be made, that John give him a little leeway, and that he might get the item directly on Christmas. That had made John laugh, and Mycroft had insisted that he would try his best however, to make sure John had several presents ready. That had made John laugh all the harder.

But he hardly felt like laughing now. He felt instead like ruminating on his inadequacies til morning light forced him to get up and get ready for work.

John turned over onto his side, wondering why he’d shouted  _ that _ at Sherlock early. _ I don’t know what I want _ . How embarrassing. John was a grown man, and should know what he wanted. He  _ did _ know. He was just unable to ask for it…

Sod it all! 

John flipped over onto his other side and screwed his eyes shut tight. He willed himself to sleep. Right luck he had with that.

\-----

The next day John dragged himself from work and up the stairs to their flat in a defeated lethargy. He threw himself face down onto the couch when he got inside, not bothering to take off his coat or scarf, or even let go of his leather briefcase.

“John?”

“What is it, Sherlock?” John said into the couch cushion.

“Here.”

John lifted his head up to see Sherlock was holding out a white envelope for him.

Curious, John sat up properly and grabbed the envelope. It had John's name on it, written in that same fancy script as the first two letters had been.

“You made me another Christmas List?” he sighed.

“Wishlist.” Sherlock corrected. “Just open it.”

John was skeptical, knowing this list was probably filled with things for Sherlock just disguised as John’s own wishes, but obliged the man all the same.

“New Jumper. House slippers-- Sherlock, this is just my list with stuff added to it.” John complained.

“Keep going.” Sherlock urged.

John sighed.

“New phone--Hang on, my phones fine.”

“Is it?” Sherlock raised a challenging brow.

John shook his head, not feeling up to the argument, “Top shelf scotch...Quilt for the couch…” John looked up to his flatmates smiling face, “How did--Sherlock, How did you know?”

“ _ Keep going _ .” Sherlock smiled.

“A proper sit down Christmas dinner with the family--Hang on, you mean your family?”

“Well, I didn’t think seeing any of  _ your _ relatives would exactly fill you with Holiday cheer. And I know you’ve been dying to see what a Holmes Family Christmas looks like ever since Mycroft brought it up.”

John smiled and kept reading.

“The rest of these are donations to my favorite charities.”

“I figured since you had such a hard time asking for things--concerned with the money, no matter how naive that may be--that giving some of your wishes to the needy might make you feel a bit better about the whole endeavour.” Sherlock’s smile faltered, and he looked a bit embarrassed, but cleared his throat anyways and said, “There’s one more.”

John looked down, and indeed there was one more item on the list.

“You?” John looked up confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave a long suffering sigh, though couldn’t shake that apprehensive look off his face, “Really, John, must I spell  _ everything  _ out for you?”

John continued to watch his flatmate, beyond confused. And then--

“Wait… are you saying… that you think that I… want… you?”

Sherlock looked down at John, mouth open to reply, but he stopped himself, brows coming down in concern, “Well, I just thought that. I mean, it appeared to  _ me _ , that--well…”

John watched Sherlock fiddle with the edge of his suit jacket. 

“Sherlock, you can’t ask for a person for Christmas.” 

Sherlock looked at John in disbelief.

“John, this was my way of coming on to you. I’m suggesting that you want me sexually, romantically, or what have you.”

“I know that, you silly git.” John smiled, standing up from the couch. He crowded in on Sherlock’s space, making the taller man blush. 

Before he could lose his nerve, John leaned up onto the tips of his toes so he could kiss Sherlock, just on the corner of his mouth. 

“It’s perfect.” he informed him.

Sherlock looked shocked.

“Was that kiss… a friend kiss?”

John chuckled.

“Here, let me clear it up for you a little bit.” he said, and then proceeded to give Sherlock a proper kiss. One filled with affection, love, and maybe a little bit more passion than either man had expected.

\-----

Later, both men stumbled out of Sherlock’s bedroom, completely sated after having finished thoroughly exploring the newfound territory of each others bodies. John laughed at Sherlock’s riot of hair, curls sticking up in each and every way. They clumsily made their way through the living room and landed on the couch, in a tangle of limbs and kisses, unable to fully detach now that they’d started this crazy thing that had sprung between them.

“I hope you wrote up another wishlist,” he told Sherlock once he released his lips, laying his head on the other man’s shoulder, “I mean, it was cute and all, but I wouldn’t want yer mum seeing that last item, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I--” but Sherlock stopped.

John lifted his head to see the detectives eyes widened in no small amount of horror.

“What is it, Sherlock?” John asked, thoroughly considered, he looked around the flat to see what may have caused this reaction in the other man, but saw nothing out of place, “What’s wrong.”

“The wishlist,” Sherlock croaked, eyes fixed on the coffee table.

“Yeah?”

“It’s gone.”

“What?” John looked to the coffee table, where the wishlist Sherlock had written for him had ended up. It was indeed missing. Envelope and all.

“Where could it have gone to?” John said, standing up and looking under the coffee table before he froze. He turned to stare down at Sherlock, realizing what Sherlock had realized a few moments before, and they both said in unison,

“Mycroft.”

\-----

Mycroft Holmes had been tired of waiting around for his brother and John to finish up their little rendezvous. He’d been waiting in their flat flat for entirely too long now. He’d gotten the intel that the wishlist had been finished and had come down to Baker Street to fetch it for himself.

Repulsed by the noises he heard coming from Sherlock’s bedroom, and under a firm deadline from Mummy to have John’s wishlist in shortly, Mycroft scanned the living room, looking for the damned thing.

He found it sitting on the coffee table.

“Finally.” he muttered to himself, tucking the list back into the envelope and into his breast pocket, “About time.” 

If, later, Mrs.Holmes refused to let neither John, Sherlock, or Mycroft forget about the wish list, and in fact, made it into a Christmas tradition to bring it up, well, that was no fault of Mycroft’s.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> All I want for Christmas.. is YOU!!! to comment or kudo. OR both. OR send me dank vibes through the computer/phone screen. Come on. I know you can do it. Who else have I been getting all this positive energy from?


End file.
